Specific Obligations
by Lettered
Summary: Lead up to the wedding, the wedding, the wedding night, etc etc. Pure fluff.
1. Default Chapter

A/N: 4 or 5 short chapters of wedding fluff. It's not meant to be historically accurate; rather, it is meant, like EA, to use some historical elements in the telling of a fairy tale.

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The treaty with Spain was on hold, which pleasantly surprised King Francis. He had been sure he had already watched the whole thing blow out the window when his son at stood up and walked out of his own wedding. However, the monarchs of Spain seemed blame themselves—or their daughter, at least—just as much as they blamed France and Henry. While Princess Gabriella blubbered on in the arms of her lover (a priest, no less), the Spanish ministers and royals and met with the Queen and King of France in the private apartment behind the throne and discussed what was to be done.

King Charles of Spain seemed disposed for reconciliation. "We tried something and it didn't work. Why force them? I always knew Gabby was a romantic sensibility," he'd told them genially.

Queen Marie's heart had been in her throat. Half of her was wild with joy that her son had followed her heart (and pleased that she wouldn't have that sobbing banshee for a daughter-in-law and future Queen of France) and the other half of her was terrified at what Francis would do, and what this would mean for the future of her country. "They're just children," she'd agreed. "It hardly seems fair."

"Not all children are spineless, and the world is not fair," Queen Isabella of Spain had said sharply. "Your son should do his duty by my daughter. And you should _not _have allowed Gabriella to go mooning about as you did, Quinto," she said, rounding sharply on her husband, "or else this would never have happened."

"Perhaps the fault lies with us," Marie had interjected gently, "for being too lax in raising our children. But then again, perhaps we have been too harsh." She lifted a brow and looked significantly at Isabella, while Charles looked approvingly at Marie.

Francis frowned. "The point is that we had a treaty. France stands by her offers."

"Your son?" Queen Isabella asked, her voice sounding cantankerous.

"Will be made to hear reason, on my honor."

Behind him, the ministers were flurrying furiously, but King Charles ignored them. "I have a new proposition for you. Listen to me Francis—this is just man to man. We both want this treaty. You want it; I'm not opposed to all of France's desires, despite our past history." Francis, not opposed to being diplomatic, nodded. "Our children marrying was merely a matter of convenience, to seal the deal. Do you not agree?"

"Oh yes," Marie said, moving in—but was stopped by a glare from her husband.

"What I propose is this: that our children marry who they choose, within the time we set for them. If one or the other of them do not choose someone they love—and who loves them back—it's a romantic notion, isn't it, Izzy?—then the treaty is null and void. But if both make a love match, the treaty is signed."

"Why, what a quaint idea!" Queen Marie explained.

It was not the quaintness of the scheme—nor, in fact, the down-to-earth sensibleness of it—that convinced King Francis. It was the way his Queen was looking at the King of Spain that irked him into it, and that was that. Henry had proclaimed who he would marry immediately—though not, it was observed, before Princess Gabriella. All that remained was for each of them to be married to make good the treaty.

And so the wedding preparations were begun immediately, though kept small and private. There were many reasons for this, many of which dealt with the fact that Prince Henry had been slated to marry Princess Gabriella just days before, but some of which had to do with the particular matter of the Baroness de Ghent and a certain daughter of hers.

It infuriated Queen Marie, the way that woman had used her own step-daughter, even if that step-daughter had lied to her son and caused him heart-break. It hadn't, after all, been the step-daughter's fault. Besides which, half of that heartbreak, perhaps all of it, would have been averted had not the Baroness told the truth from the moment she had realized who the 'Countess Nicole de Lancret' was. And it infuriated Francis that anyone had dared lied to the Queen, and Queen Marie was infuriated that Francis was infuriated. One thing worse than King Francis was King Francis infuriated.

Prince Henry, too, had expressed that he was infuriated, and infuriated that his father was infuriated, and so on. They had plotted—rather pettishly, it must be admitted, all three of them being so infuriated—how best to inflict revenge on the de Ghents, and it seemed very necessary to Henry that her step-mother see Danielle as a Princess, before being sent off to the Americas. As such, it could not be known too widely who the prince was marrying in a private ceremony in the palace chapel this day—which was all very well, as the gossip about it being that servant at the Masque would have been dreadful. After she was made Princess and future Queen of France, very few would dare to mention what she might once have been. And that suited Francis, Marie, and Henry—and their fury—all very well.

Henry was eager to explain to Danielle that the speed and privacy of the wedding had nothing to do with her, who she was, or anything she had done. Danielle didn't need an explanation or any excuses, but Henry had wanted to make it clear to her that he was not ashamed of his bride, and he wanted to convince her that his parents were not ashamed either. Danielle wasn't so sure that he wanted to convince her of that last so much because it was the truth as because he didn't wanted her to feel discouraged about marrying him in any way, shape, or form.

He was still a little bit afraid she would turn around and say no. It still broke her heart, the expression on his face when she had asked him to say her name again. He hadn't been sure she would forgive him, approve of him, accept him. Danielle smiled a little, even in the midst of the confusion around her. Of course she had accepted him. Who could say no when her prince commanded her? And still, he doubted.

"You really have forgiven me?" he had asked, as he helped her into the carriage in the front yard of Le Pieu's estate.

"Only if you will forgive me," she had replied, settling into the plush seats as he took his place across from her in the coach.

He shouldn't be riding with her, he knew. It endangered her reputation; she should be treated just as any future queen approaching the palace would be treated—as Princess Gabriella had been treated. But he was too impatient and excited to deal with the pomp and formality of all that. He had almost lost her due to his own sheer stupidity, and he wasn't about to let her out of his sight for any length of time. He only hoped he could control himself, here in this enclosed, completely private space with her.

"Forgive you for what?" he had replied, jerking himself out of such warm thoughts. "You did nothing wrong."

"I deceived you!" Danielle replied, amazed that he could think that was nothing wrong, amazed that she was here in his carriage with him—still amazed that any of this was happening at all.

"To save a man's life," he said, his voice just as energized as his home. Then he waved his hand negligently, teasing her with royal dismissiveness. "That's hardly worth a grudge. Though," he continued, as if another thought had just struck him, "I wonder about the day I took you to the monastery. First, that you were at your manor in courtier's clothing at all, and second, that you kept up the pretense. Surely it was superfluous, by then."

She scowled at him and he raised his brow, mocking. He was baiting her. "How was I to know you wouldn't behead me for having made use of the pretense in the first place, your Highness?" she said, acidly—though not quite able to keep the playfulness from her voice.

"You might have refused my invitation to the monastery, at least. It would have been more prudent, given your situation."

"How was I to refuse your invitation, my Lord, without revealing who I really was?" she inquired, as if innocently.

"Quite simply," he replied, just as innocently. "Really mademoiselle, I don't see why you felt the need to carry out an elaborate deception when all you needed to do was carry out a quick one" He cocked his head to one side and said wickedly, "You could have just told me you were leaving the country, shut the door in my face, and never have seen me again."

She gave him a dirty look which was usually only reserved for Gustave when he had, through some fluke, managed to best her in the various games they played. "You know very well I couldn't do that."

"And why? I ask you, madam, why—"

"You already know why," she said levelly. The playfulness was suddenly gone from her voice and her eyes were all seriousness, locked with his.

It was a loving, gentle seriousness that suddenly made him glad he was sitting down. He swallowed, finding that his mouth was suddenly dry. "Yes, but I need to hear you say it." He was chagrined to note that his voice was a trifle hoarse.

Her heart rose into her throat, and he could hear it there, in her voice. "Because I had already fallen in love with you," she told him, looking him straight in the eyes. He settled back into his seat, satisfaction washing over him, only the smallest part of which was gloating over having gotten the upper hand in their playful conversation. "Because," she went on, and he sat up again, startled, "I had started loving you the moment I met you. Because I knew then that I would always love you, that I would never love anyone else, that—"

"Stop," he said, wincing. He fell back into his seat again and closed his eyes—looking very much as if he had a headache.

Suddenly, Danielle was alarmed. She remembered him once intimating that he found her passion exhausting, or at least thought it would be so. Was it possible that the strength of her affection and desire for him far exceeded what she thought _he_ felt for _her_? That he only felt for her the same apathetic interest which he had felt for . . . Marguerite, for example? The thought was ridiculous; if it was true, he would of course not have come to Le Pieu's and whisked her off her feet. Still . . . "Henry," she said gently, touching his knee. "What is it? If I have—"

His hand suddenly gripped hers, and she found that it was quite warm, and his eyes, when they snapped open, were blazing hot. "You did nothing wrong. Only, you must remember not to speak to me that way until after we are married."

"Wh—"

"This is why," he said gently, anticipating her question. He pressed the hand he was gripping against his chest.

She could feel his heart beating there, wildly, so fast and thunderous that it made her own heart suddenly gallop, too. "Oh," she said, abashed and chagrined, and looked shyly into his eyes. "But you know, your Highness, _after _we are married . . ."

"After we are married, you may say whatever you like." He pulled her hand away and lightly kissed the top of it before returning it to her. Suddenly he smiled, and gave her a teasing look. "Just be prepared for the consequences."

"It seems, my Lord," she said archly, a smile creeping up on her face, "that _you _are the one who should be prepared. You are, after all, the one who finds my mouth so fascinating—and I'm afraid you've seen little more than half of what it can do."

The prince was struck dumb for a moment. For many moments, actually. "You really must stop torturing me," he said finally, utterly failing to sound as arch and teasing as she had, even as his tightly clenching fists belied the attempted tone.

"Then you must stop baiting me," she teased, a triumphant light in her eye.

"By God," he breathed. "_After _we are married," he emphasized, "I will _show _you how fascinating I find that mouth, far more eloquently than I was ever able to say it." He paused a moment. "And then we will see who is speechless."

Danielle grinned, remembering her reaction to the voracious heat in his eyes. They had ridden in silence after that, both of them rather wishing, she was sure, that he had decided to ride ahead of the carriage without her after all. It was only the comedy of the situation—the inanity of regretting being cooped up with each other when it was, in fact, the _only_ thing either of them wanted—was the only thing that saved them from rendering each other _mutually _speechless.

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to be continued...


	2. chapter 2

A/N: A line near the end is stolen from my favorite line in ID-4.

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Sighing, Danielle flopped her arms about her. She wished she could just be with him, instead of being surrounded by all these frivolous ladies-in-waiting, whose sole goal in life seemed to be to make her a suitable wedding dress in the time allotted. Danielle felt as if she had done nothing but stand in the midst of the fabric and measuring tape flying around her this past day and a half, and it was time she would have much rather spent with her prince.

It was worse than being attacked by gypsies—even worse than one of Marguerite's marathons in which she _needed _the _perfect _dress for one affair or another. She couldn't even tell them to lay off as she had to the gypsies, or escape, as she would have from Marguerite. After all, anything she did now—especially today—reflected on Henry. She supposed she would have to tone down her usual forthrightness. A little.

At last, the attendants were finished, and stepped back. "How do you like it, milady?"

Danielle started guiltily, realizing that comparing the women—who were, after all, only trying to be helpful—to gypsies and Marguerite wasn't really fair. These servants weren't her family and weren't used to her moods, as those at home had been, and she hadn't exactly been very patient with them.

But it was so _difficult_ to be patient when she was about to marry the only man she would ever love. Danielle sighed. He had said there were 'things to be taken care of', before and after the marriage—things that didn't involve the two of them, alone, talking and teasing and discussing in the way that only the two of them could, things that didn't involve his lips on hers and his hands drawing her hips to his and _her_ hands exploring the fascinating depths of his hair and contours of his skull.

Smiling a little dreamily, Danielle thought ahead to that night, when she would at last have Henry all to herself. For real, this time, because there would be no deceit, no misunderstanding, no uncertainty between them. Danielle hid a smile. There would be a whole lot less between them all around—far less formality, worries of propriety, and—clothing. Come to think of it, she couldn't fathom why these ladies were so intent on fashioning her a wedding gown if she was only going to be taking it off once she—

Someone coughed, and Danielle started again. She glanced up into the glass, and blinked. "I . . . I don't know what to say," she finally said, staring at herself in the mirror. Her mother's wedding dress had been ruined by rain and dirt—though Danielle still prayed that there was someone at the palace who could do something for it—but this was another thing altogether.

"The front is too high, isn't it?" someone said. There was a gouging of elbows and an "I told you the front was too high."

"Any lower and I would be half-naked," Danielle said idly, and someone gasped. The dress was a concoction of velvet and silk and lace and many tiny winking stones, all worked into the delicate filigree of the trim and bodice. It was a beautiful gown, not unlike her mother's, and yet far more modern by today's standards. It was far heavier and yet she felt far less dressed. She remembered what she had felt the first time she had put on a courtier's dress to save Maurice, and wondered how all the countesses and marquisses did it everyday. She hoped Henry would not expect her to dress like this _all _the time—how could she still whip Gustave? But she had to admit, it would be fun _some _of the time.

"What's wrong with it, milady?" a voice said finally.

"Oh! Nothing!—nothing," Danielle said, smiling happily and throwing herself at the old matron who had spoken. Her name was Beatrice, and she was Queen Marie's own lady-in-waiting, and had headed the whole affair of making the dress.

Beatrice was not at all used to future-princesses throwing her arms around her—Queen Marie would surely never do anything so undignified—and yet, in the past forty-eight hours, she had found herself growing fond of this would-be queen. Danielle gave herself no airs, and was so kind to them all it was as if she was one of them. And yet—she had a dignity about her, an intrinsic understanding of what went on around her, that Beatrice had always thought a queen should have. Yes, she wouldn't mind having this girl for her mistress. If only she minded her clothes a little more and didn't get them muddied as she had warned them all she was prone to do. That wasn't a very queenly thing at all.

When it was finally related throughout the palace that Danielle had been properly attired, it was related all the way back that she might make her appearance in the throne room. This, Danielle knew, was to settle the 'business' to which Henry had referred, which he had told her—with a certain amount of annoyance—his father deemed necessary before their marriage. Danielle went willingly, annoyed not at all. She would go through a great deal, if it meant she was to be married to the man she had come to know this past week.

The throne room was long and felt far more intimidating empty than it would have had it been full of people, she felt. King Francis was standing by a table—obviously a temporary piece of furniture in the throne room, but looking regal in its own right and not at all out of place. On it were spread maps, papers, and various renditions of the royal insignia in scattered form, and behind it and around it were many of the ministers of France, looking grim with steepled hands and sour expressions. Queen Marie was on her throne, watching Danielle with compassion, as if she was about to go through some ordeal, and the Prince stood at her side, behind her and a little to the left.

When she first caught sight of him, her heart jumped. She had never seen him look so handsome. He was all in white or shades thereof—for the wedding ceremony, she assumed. The tints emphasized the tan of his skin and the startling steel gray of his eyes, the only other color the circlet on his brow.

She was surprised by how natural it looked there. She had not fallen in love with him because he was a prince, but because he was a man who felt as passionately and profoundly as she did. Now, however, she saw the other half of him—the side he had been running from, in his company with her, the side that had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she 'was just like them'—beneath him, unworthy of his notice, unworthy of calling him by the only name he wanted. That part of him, she knew, would take some getting used to.

King Francis was looking at her with a deep frown, his brows heavy and ponderous over measuring eyes. Danielle lifted her chin and arched a quizzical brow, which caused him to blink several times. "Danielle de Barbarac," he said at last, when she was before him. She inclined her head in response, and he huffed, as if in annoyance. "I don't know what spell you've cast over my son to make him want to marry a commoner, but—"

"I have done nothing, Sire," Danielle said, startled into indignation. "I think—"

"Yes, yes," Francis replied, waving an idle hand at her. "I've heard enough of what you both _think_." He rolled his eyes, then, noticing that his son had crossed the dais and was half-way down. "Young people," he groaned, under his breath, and hastily went on. "You're not here to argue about it, any rate. You're here because even if it _is _the wish of my son to marry a common woman, it isn't _my _wish, and yet apparently, you're the only woman he'll have—heaven knows why—oh, _back, _you devil, I'm merely saying what _I _think, now; I've heard enough from _you—" _

This last to Henry, who had descended the stairs completely, and whose eyes were very very angry. The prince had had assurances from his father that Danielle would receive no harshness from anyone due to her background, but now it seemed he hadn't held himself to his own word. Queen Marie was half out of her seat as well, noticing with pity the hurt in Danielle's eyes, as well as the fires that blazed there.

But neither of them had any real need of worry. King Francis was the sort—like Henry, rather, which was no coincidence—who had to be heard, even when it made no difference, and liked for everyone to know he was unhappy when he was so, and to try to make everyone else unhappy in the bargain. But the truth of it was, King Francis was not so very unhappy as he made himself out to be; the treaty with Spain was being signed tomorrow and his son, at last, was to settle down, even though the maid he had chosen didn't seem the settlingest sort. "Anyway, as I was saying, it isn't my wish that my son marry a common woman, so as of today you are _not _a common woman."

Danielle blinked. "I'm not?"

"No. You are Countess de Flauvent, first of—"

"Flauvent?"

"It's a small bit of land, in Provence," Francis explained, unpleased that he had been interrupted. "As I was saying—"

"Land?" Danielle asked, frowning. "I'm afraid I don't understand—"

"Father," Henry interjected, placing a hand on his father's arm to stall the king's angry retort. "At least let her know what she is getting into."

"You said you wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible," Francis replied, sounding as petulant as Henry often could.

"Not when it means leaving my future _wife _uninformed," Henry told him, raising his brow.

Francis huffed, waved his hand, and said dully, "Gerard?"

One of the ministers at the table stood up, looking shy. Another minister wrinkled his nose, scowling up at the one named Gerard, obviously believing that _he _should be the one talking. "Flauvent," Gerard began, shuffling through the papers on the desk, "belonged to the Count de Flauvent—obviously—and passed on to his only daughter, who has since joined a convent." The attendant's voice was nasal and wobbly, and he looked from Danielle to Henry to Francis, as if unsure of to whom to speak. "Eighty acres, partially vineyards; income of four thousand franks per annum, consisting of—"

"Gerard."

"Yes," the minister replied, startled by the king's annoyed voice. The minister who had wrinkled his nose looked self-satisfied and snide at the reprimand. "Since mademoiselle de Flauvent has joined the convent," Gerard went on, "the lands naturally revert to the king—er—him—His Majesty King Francis II of France, of the line of Valois, son of—"

"Gerard!" It was Henry's and Francis' voice together, this time.

"Yes, your Majesty. Your Majesties, I mean. I mean, yes." Gerard glanced nervously at Danielle and found that she was smiling encouragingly, which suddenly seemed to make everything alright. "The land now belongs to the king, who may dispose of it as he wills. He is free to grant it to any nobleman he chooses. Or," Gerard continued, putting his head to one side, as if he had just thought of it, "he may knight any fellow he chooses and bestow the lands upon him to grant him a title. Or," Gerard went on, giving Danielle a generous nod, "he can . . . er, Lady any lady he chooses, and bestow the lands on him—I mean her—to grant her a title. Er—that's all."

Danielle nodded her thanks to the stumbling Gerard, who sat back down, a silly grin on his face. It was strange, although they said Danielle de Barbarac was a commoner, her nod and smile already felt like the nod and smile of a queen, and those who received it already felt privileged. The snide minister curled a lip at Danielle, who instinctively didn't like him.

"I'm afraid there has been some mistake," Danielle said clearly. "I don't want any estates in Provence."

"Of course you do," Francis told her blithely. Prince Henry merely raised a brow. "Now, you will need to sign here, here, and—"

"How am I to look after property that is in _Provence_?" Danielle asked, completely ignoring the document the king was waving at her.

Francis blinked several times. "Why, you foolish girl, you are not going to look _after _it. After today, you shall have nothing to do with it. Gerard and my other ministers handle all the Crown's property. Now—"

"He said it would be bestowed upon _me," _Danielle said simply. "I will not have any property attached to my name that I cannot care for. In person." As Francis suddenly realized that she was, in fact, quite in earnest, he stopped dead, the parchment in his hand suddenly going limp in his hand. "Furthermore, I _want _no other property—and no other name—than that which is already my own. If that is not good enough for Henry," she said, locking eyes with her betrothed, "then he is not good enough for me."

Henry merely smiled at her, an easy, contented smile, that was really quite self-satisfied about something. Danielle frowned and glanced back at the king, who had pulled his son back to splutter at him in undertones. "Henry," he hissed, his voice low, "_what _is the meaning of this? I will _not _have you marry a commoner, much less one who talks to me this way."

"It's back then, I suppose, to disowning me and you living forever," Henry replied, off-handedly, almost dreamily, his gaze never leaving the form of Danielle and the smile never leaving his face.

"What!" King Francis exploded, outraged. "I will not have you do this to me! I _will_ not! She _will _sign; she _will _be the countess of Flauvent, and that is _final. _And _what _are you smiling at?"

Queen Marie had finally risen, looking harried. "Couldn't you just make her countess of the de Barbarac estate?" she asked, interposing herself between her son and husband, because the latter had begun to look as if he would do serious injury to the former.

"That's not how it's done," Francis was heaving at his wife. Henry, meanwhile, was oblivious. His gaze was riveted to Danielle, and most of the other things going on in the room seemed fuzzy and small. Danielle was scowling at Francis, indignation still in vivid colors on her face.

She was outraged that the king would try to give her land just to change her name and make her someone who she was not. She couldn't hear what was going on between the royal family, but she was resolved: she was not opposed to a title; but she _was—_and would always be—opposed to land that was not rightfully hers and a title she could never even attempt to earn. If she was to marry Henry, she would marry Henry as who she had always been, and no one else.

"Henry," the King exclaimed, his voice somehow a shouted whisper, "get the woman to sign the damned papers or the whole thing is off! I mean it this time, Henry, if you don't—"

"Look at her," Henry said softly. "Just look at her. Take a deep breath and look at her, father."

Francis took a deep breath—several, in fact, and looked. "I don't see what—"

"That's the woman I want to marry. Look at her, how beautiful she is. Look at the fire in her eyes, at the way she's holding her own against you. Can't you see why I want to marry her? Today? Right now?" His voice was hoarse with emotion and desire, oblivious to the propriety of using such a tone in public. He turned slow, heated eyes to his father. "You're the King of France. Surely you can do anything you want. Surely you can see I will marry her anyhow, some way, even if you make it impossible for us to marry with your consent. Look at her, and tell me you wouldn't do the same."

Francis looked again, and saw, not Danielle, but Marie. Marie not as she was now, but not as she had been when he married her, either. When he had married her she had been a frail, trembling girl, passed on to him with a signed treaty and business negotiations.

No, what he saw now, in his mind's eye, was Marie when he had first realized he loved her. Marie standing in front of a three year old Henry and telling her husband that her son would _not _be betrothed in infancy to a girl neither of them knew, that Henry would _not _be schooled in a far distant corner of France where neither of them would ever see him, that Henry would _not _wear a crown, because he had this uncanny habit of chewing on them, and that she would _not _stand for him reading her son any more adventure stories because Francis, you newt, they frighten him and how am I to spend my nights with you, love, if he is up fretting all night?

Francis recalled the fire in his wife's eyes, the resolution, the anger. It was then, and not before, that he had realized he loved her. He wasn't sure he ever told her, but she knew. Their was a forced relationship from the beginning, and had either of them had to live it over, they might have lived it differently. They were at each other's throats more often than not, it was true, and they hardly ever agreed on anything, especially where Henry was concerned. But it didn't change the fact that he loved her. It didn't change the fact that he would rather spend the rest of his life with her than any other woman on the planet.

Shaking his head and frowning, Francis demanded petulantly, "What am I supposed to do?"

"I suggest you _make _it possible for us to marry with your consent, and then allow us to do so," Henry replied blandly, and then added, "and hurry up about it."

"Oh good grief," Francis said, rolling his eyes, and muttering something about young people again. "Come here, girl, and kneel down."

"What—" Danielle began, her voice as imperious as any queen's.

"Do you want to marry my son or not?" the king demanded impatiently.

Danielle came there and knelt down.

"I name you Countess of Barbarac," the king declared, touching Danielle lightly on her forehead. "A benediction, I think, will do nicely. Father, if you will?" A priest approached, and Danielle bent her head still further down. Words were said, a piecemeal, make-shift dubbing was enacted, and after it all the king told Danielle to stand up. "Now, is that all?" he mused, stroking his beard. "Oh yes," he concluded suddenly. "There is the small matter of the paper-work."

He strode over to the table and grabbed several lengths of parchment. With flourishes that Danielle could see even from where she was standing, he signed several of them, crossed things out on others, and then threw his quill down. "There, that should do the trick," he said.

The ministers were in a tizzy, looking over the documents with appalled, confused faces. One of the ministers—the snide one—brought the matter to a head with the outburst, "You just can't _do _that!"

Francis turned slowly back to the table. "I have many jobs as king," he said, his brow rising, "and one of them is to do any damn thing I please."

"We were born to privilege, and with that comes specific obligations," Henry added helpfully, nodding wisely.

The snide minister, who had been sneering at Gerard all through his stumbling speech, scowled and sat back with a huff. "You're making a big mistake."

"The only mistake I ever made, Jacques," Francis began succinctly, striding back over to the ministers, "was making you my chief advisor." Without even trying to be regal about it he snatched the wig from the minister's head and placed it on Gerard's skull. "You're it now, m'boy," he said, and turned back to face the royal family. "Do we have a wedding to attend?" he asked, all guilelessness, and held his arm out for his wife. Henry and Danielle smiled at each other, and, with the ever-present train of attendants and heralds, they exited the throne room to make their way toward the chapel.

"He can't do that," Jacques complained petulantly, sitting back in his chair.

"He just—er . . . did," Gerard replied, and shrugged. He did, however, offer Jacques back his wig, and that with great aplomb.


	3. chapter 3

A/N: Whoa, someone needs to remind me to update. Anyway thanks for all the nice words.

* * *

An hour later, a wedding took place in the private chapel of the palace. Only a small portion of the court was there—those deemed discreet enough to keep the matter somewhat quiet, and those important enough to necessitate an invitation, lest their being left off the list caused any sort of dispute. There was, of course, a bishop presiding, the same one who had named Danielle a countess, and the same one who would afterwards crown her a princess. He was flanked by several altar boys and a younger priest. The King and Queen, in turn, were flanked by several dignitaries and ministers of government, but Jacques was noticably absent and Gerard was noticably beaming.

Danielle would have taken in these arrangements with pleasure, had her eyes been able to stray at all from her betrothed, waiting for her at the end of the aisle between the pews of the chapel. The room was intimate and private, which made the people who were there feel as if they were crowding it, but the sun was slanting through the stained glass in the warmest, most welcoming manner, and to Danielle, it was as if Henry and God were the only other ones in the room.

The look on his face was one she would remember forever: a self-satisfied, proud look that she had come to recognize these past few days as a look reserved only for her. It was a look that she could only compare with a cat who had got its cream, and she could only conclude that that prize was she. And yet, Danielle could not resent being the trophy of such a self-contented gaze, because she knew that even though the prince had had everything he had ever wanted in his short life, he had never been truly content before, except when he looked at her. But at this moment there was also an incredulity in his eyes, a boyish excitement that spoke of all the wonder he found in knowing that they would very soon belong to each other.

She remembered that look because it was the same awed and loving look that he gave her hours later, after their first night together as man and wife.

At last she had reached the altar, and he took her hand. There was reassurance in warmth in that hand, but it was not one-sided; she knew that her hand reassured him as much as his reassured her. In that sense, they clung to each other as to a life-line, because for both of them, the whole world was about to change. As was the case when she was dubbed countess, she remembered very little of the words said over her. She once again was only aware of Henry and God, in the form of light pouring in from above them to grace their clasped hands.

Afterwards, they stood, and Henry folded her arm in his. It was then that he became her strength, and she merely latched onto him. As the courtiers and ministers and priests filed out of the chapel, she tilted her chin up to him. "What are we supposed to do now?" she whispered.

He went completely still for a moment as he looked down at her. His eyes darkened so quickly and intensely that it took her breath away, and his voice was low and hoarse when he spoke. "Do I really need to explain it to you?" he queried.

Her mouth quirked, and she longed to laugh. In any other circumstance, she would have, but she realized that he was indeed quite serious. His mind was on one thing and one thing only. So she swallowed back her giggles—but not the playfulness in her eyes, and said coyly, "My Lord, you were born to privilege, and with that, comes specific obligations." At his blank look, she elucidated. "I think there were a few things your father wanted to have done before we— . . . did that."

"Oh," he said, and blinked, deflated.

"But _later, _we might . . ." she began, this time not so coyly, and not bothering to hide the teasing in her voice.

"Yes, later," he said firmly. He allowed himself a few brief moments before shaking his head clear of all thoughts of 'later'. "Now, if I remember correctly, my father wanted to have you coronated."

"Coronated?" Danielle asked, surprised. "But I'm only . . ."

"It's not official. That comes a while later," he explained, pulling her along as he followed his attendents down the halls of the palace. Laurent had been rolling his eyes at them to hurry for the past minute, and was pleased to finally get their attention. "You have no official position, yet, obviously. But they like to have certain assurances about the wife of the heir and the future queen, et cetera et cetera. Don't worry, you'll do fine."

"Do?" Danielle asked, suddenly horrified. "I have to _do _something?"

They were at the doors to the throne room once again, and Danielle realized with panic that the room was not so empty as it had been when they had so spontaneously made her a countess. "Oh yes," Henry replied off-handedly. "_Later_," he said significantly, "I expect you to _do_ all sorts of things."

She swatted him. "Get your mind off later; I need help _now. _What am I supposed to—"

Henry shrugged, grinned, and signalled to Laurent to throw the doors open. "Let me rephrase," he whispered in her ear, before shoving her out into the room full of people. "You won't do fine. You'll do _perfectly."_

With that, Danielle found herself propelled into the throne room, and one more time, walking down an aisle through a crowd of people. Most of the courtiers from the chapel had appreared for the ceremony now; after all, afterwards, there was supposed to be feasting, drinking, and dancing, a circumstance few were eager to miss. But there were even more people here, partly because the chapel had been small and could only sit a limited number of people, and partly because the wedding had been private, but festivities never were, even when they were meant to be.

And so Danielle made her way through the peers of France and knelt by herself before the king and queen. In the end, it was not so hard, and she was as fine as Henry had said she would be. Francis merely made her swear fealty to France, its people, and its Crown and interests, and many things along that line, all of which sounded the same to her. And then Queen Marie bent and put her hand under Danielle's cheek, and a coronet had descended onto Danielle's brow. This surprised her, and the weight of it felt awkward, but she supposed it was something she could get used to. She had never been power hungry or wealth starved in the way of her step-mother or sister, but she did like the idea of having enough say over the land to help those less fortunate than she. Her father would be proud.

About an hour later, Danielle and Henry were all alone. That is, with half the court of France still milling around behind them in the throne room and a long train of attendents trailing after the newly-made royal couple. Danielle, who had been looking eagerly up at Prince Henry since he had taken her arm after the ceremony and led her away, was becoming embarrassed under all the eyes. "Don't you ever tire of being waited upon all the time?" she asked him suddenly, stopping in the middle of the hall and pulling his arm around so she could face him.

"Well . . ." Henry began laconically, giving her a lazy grin. "They're servants; it's what they—"

She did not move much, just one tiny step forward. It was enough, however, to completely change his body chemistry. He sucked a breath in, and flicked his eyes away from hers only once as he spoke to the others. "You may go," Henry told them briefly.

The train following them peeled off, but one lingered, apparently quite reluctant to neglect his duty. "But Sire—"

"The princess has found her chambers, it seems," Henry said, whirling around and gesturing to the double doors not two yards down the halls. "I don't believe that from now on she'll be needing any of _your_ assisstance, tonight."

The attendent quivered, and made a grand obesience. "But Sire, it is also our duty to attend you to your chamber as well."

Henry's brows slowly rose. He regripped Danielle's arm, firmly pressing it into his side. "It is my intention not to go beyond the princess's chambers tonight, Pierre."

Pierre blinked several times in chagrin. "Very good, Sire," he replied, backing away from the prince and princess, nearly falling over himself in bows and embarrassment.

Danielle, trying to swallow a grin and not really succeeding, stood on tip toe and whispered into her husband's ear. "I wish I could dismiss mine so easily as you dismiss yours."

Henry was still scowling after Pierre, but as her lips left his ear he pulled her around in front of him, his hands finding the small of her back beneath her royal cloak and pressing her in close. His embrace was nothing, at that moment, to do with desire, and everything to do with reassurance. "As if I would spend the night anywhere else," he murmured into her hair, his thoughts still obviously with Pierre's lack of perception.

"Yes, yes," Danielle told him, patting his back. "But preferably be_hind _the doors." He pulled back scowling, and she threw back her head and laughed, and he knew that she was right. He must get her behind the doors, because when she laughed like that, her neck was exposed to the world, and tonight he wanted her exposed only to himself; her soft, luminous body his to explore, her pale, delectable throat his to devour. He resolutely took her hand, threw open the doors, and dragged her inside.


End file.
